


Of Heaven and Hell

by Wind_Ryder



Series: Tumblr Fics [15]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angels, Baptism, Christianity, Crossroads Deals & Demons, Demonology, Demons, Good, Heaven, Hell, Redemption, Religion, Roman Catholicism, Soldiers, Souls, Torture, bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-19 08:03:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2380916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wind_Ryder/pseuds/Wind_Ryder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A modified take on Bmwiid's prompt on tumblr: </p><p>Steve’s 7 years old when he makes a deal with Buchanan - the crossroads demon.</p><p>Buchanan seals the deal with a kiss to Steve’s clammy forehead, giving him 10 years to spend in good health with his mom - who is cured of all ills.</p><p>Only, when Steve shows up after the 10 years, a half an hour early, Buchanan can’t believe that Steve showed - can’t believe that Steve is still  going to keep the word of a terrified 7 year old kid.He tells Steve he’s too busy making deals to take him now, but he’ll be back later.</p><p>And then later he can’t do it either.</p><p>And so he ends up just showing up at Steve’s place all the time, sometimes in different bodies but always just there - and Steve can always see the real him - trying to figure out why he can’t collect on the soul he was promised.</p><p>Eventually, he’s got two options, he takes the soul or he takes Steve’s place.</p><p>And he decides that he can’t kill Steve, good, honest, pure Steve - he takes his place in hell.</p><p>And when Steve find out…</p><p>He goes in to save him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Heaven and Hell

**Author's Note:**

> I found this prompt on tumblr and wrote it in a day. It's unbeta'd, and rough, so if you see any mistakes feel free to point them out. Thank you for stopping by for a visit!

In his many years of service, Buchanan had never been summoned by someone quite as young as this. The boy (Buchanan assumed it was a boy, it had been  _so_ long since he’d stretched his wings top side that it was difficult to tell these days) was barely up to his waist. He was pale and shaky, and he held onto the edges of his shirt like it was about to be torn from his back. He was blonde and frail, underfed and sickly. Buchanan could feel the hand of death on the boy’s shoulder, a tug to the afterlife that Buchanan was very familiar with. The boy was an innocent, soul not scarred by any of the lesser sins. His one wrongdoing had transpired this very night. He’d summoned a demon, and that alone was enough to blight out the pure spirit he’d held for all of his tiny years. 

“You summoned me?” Buchanan asked slowly. If the boy walked away now, didn’t go through with the deal he’d started, the blight would heal. His years of good behavior would overshadow this one poor choice. If he continued down this path, he would be condemned. There was nothing Buchanan could do to stop that. 

“Y-yes, sir,” the boy squeaked. Buchanan frowned at him. It was no good towering over the child. He was there to broker a deal and business never happened when heads were at opposite levels. He crouched down onto his haunches and squinted slightly to take the boy in. His name appeared like fire above his head.  _Steven Grant Rogers_. He was seven years old. 

“What do you want, Steve?” Buchanan asked him. He let his eyes trail to the summoning box. Toy soldiers, a faded picture of his mother, and a few battered flowers made up the offering. It was all the child had, and was the bulk of his prized possessions. 

The boy flinched at his name, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Please, sir, my ma’s real sick. Could you save her, sir?” Buchanan’s eyes snapped back to the boy. His shock must have reflected on his face, because the boy quickly hurried on. “She’s been real sick with fever, and the book - the book that Mr. Prewitt said was bad, it said that you could do something about that. You could save her right?”

“I could,” Buchanan agreed. “I could, but it would come for a price.”

“I know, sir. And that’s all right sir, but my ma don’t deserve bein’ sick all the time. She’s a nurse down at the hospital, and she helps all them people. If she dies then there won’t be no one left to take care of them.” 

“Or you,” Buchanan noted. The boy’s history was plain enough to see. His father had died earlier that year, and there was no one else at home. Buchanan peered closer. His mother worked nearly twenty hours a day to keep food on the table for her son, and she’d gotten sick because of it. She would die within the week, and her son would likely die not too long after that.  They were both fated for Heaven if nothing interfered. 

“I don’t care ‘bout me, sir,” the boy told him. 

“Won’t your mother care about your soul? If you broker this deal, you will never see her again. I’ll collect your soul for hell, and you will be everything she taught you not to be.” The boy bit his lip savagely and nodded his head. Tears pressed into his eyes and he batted them away with a desperate swipe of his wrist. 

“Please sir, please don’t let her die. I know she’ll be sore at me, but…but…da said I gotta look out for my ma, and if I let her die then it’ll be all my fault. Please!” he was crying faster, huge tears slipping down his pale cheeks. Buchanan sucked in a deep breath and grit his teeth. 

“Ten years,” he bargained softly. “Ten years and she will be protected. Not an illness, not a threat, not a hair on her head harmed. She’ll live unmolested from anything.” The boy obviously wasn’t expecting such a bargain. His eyes lit up joyfully and he nodded as fast as he could. “In ten years, you’ll return to this spot, and I’ll take your soul. Your mother will lose her protection, and so time will tell when she goes from there. You’ll leave her alone, Steve,” Buchanan warned. “She’ll be by herself, and she’ll have lost her only son.”

“But she’ll  _live_ ,” the boy whispered. 

“She will,” Buchanan nodded. 

“Ten years?”  

“Ten years, safe from harm. I won’t let anything happen to her.” It was more than a fair deal. In fact, it was bordering on being too nice. The boy had come asking for her to survive this illness, he had given her immunity for a decade in return. The weight of one pure soul was not enough to balance the deal, and he knew that he’d have to make it up eventually. The boy stared up at him as though he was the second coming. It bordered on the obscene, and Buchanan was entirely unsettled by it. 

“Thank you, sir.” 

“You’re too polite, kid. I’m going to be taking you to hell in ten years. You shouldn’t be calling me ‘sir.’”

“You’re saving my ma’s life, sir. I’ll call you ‘sir’ all I want.” The boy jutted his chin up high, and Buchanan smiled at him. 

“You’re a little young for how I normally seal these deals, so we’ll improvise okay?” Buchanan asked him. He pressed his hand to Steven Grant Roger’s tiny blonde head. His hair was greasy and worn thin. The boy stared up at him with big eyes, and Buchanan leaned down to press his lips to the boy’s brow. He could feel power slipping from him and into the child he touched. A mark branded deep into the boy’s soul, marring it black and strangling the light out of the purity that lay within. All who peered into the boy’s spirit would see his great sin, and he would be barred from Heaven from that point on. 

Buchanan pulled back and smiled sadly at the small child. Already he could see the path he’d take. It would be long and hard, and he wouldn’t be happy through a lot of it, and in the end: he’d walk through the doors to Hell and pay the price for his selfish greed. Buchanan stepped back and closed his eyes. He returned from whence he came, and didn’t look back at the small child who was desperate to hold onto his mother for just a few short years. 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

Time passed quickly when you were a demon. In truth, Buchanan had learned long ago that time held no meaning for him. It was a human concept, a mortal concept, meant to countdown to their inevitable deaths. Buchanan wouldn’t die, couldn’t die, and so each rotation of the Earth was a pointless method to arrange his life by. He was only ever on Earth once every few years when someone was foolish enough to summon him to make a deal.

He kept a clock that ticked away the life of those he made bargains with. It rang whenever he was required to attend to something, and it chimed when a new soul was begging for his audience. When Steven Grant Roger’s name rang its time’s up, he sighed heavily and flew up to the crossroads of Brooklyn. 

Most deals ended with the summoner trying desperately to break out of their contract. They ran and hid, thinking that somehow they’d escape the demons of hell and their hounds of the hunt. Buchanan hated chasing them, finding it to be boring and a waste of his time and effort. They would always be caught in the end, it was just a matter of waiting them out. Sometimes it was a good way to pass a few days on Earth, but generally he found the experience to be exhausting. 

His last forty summoners had all fled for the hills when their contract was due, and so when he appeared at this crossroads- he assumed the same would take place. Steven Grant Rogers had been seven years old when they first met and made their deal. A child then, and a child now, Buchanan had doubted the boy would remember to appear, let alone offer himself up. He was surprised. 

The boy was taller now, still tiny and thin, but bigger than the runt he was. He looked tired, but at peace with his decision. His hands were tucked into his pockets, and his lips were quirked upwards. He greeted Buchanan like they were old friends, and he was not afraid. “Hello, sir.” 

“You came,” Buchanan noted. He was still surprised, but the casual and peaceful boy before him wasn’t what he’d expected in the slightest. 

“Yes, I said I would. I don’t break my promises.” There was a touch of pride in the boy’s voice, though it didn’t mar his soul. His soul, which Buchanan was stunned to see, was grey. The dark black that had stained it fiercely all those years before had become muted and faded. Ten years of good deeds had overwrought his one deadly sin. 

The sight was unheard of. He stared at the boy’s soul in shock. Church every Sunday. Charity every day. Prayers every morning, noon, and night. He confessed his sins, even that of summoning Buchanan to begin with. He did his penance and he worked diligently at the service of others. He was chaste, he was honorable, and he was pure. He had lived a good Christian life, and had done so without any prompting or selfish desire to escape his deal. He had still come to be claimed, even though he had worked so hard to be pure. 

“ _Why?”_ Buchanan asked.

“Because…it’s just not right,” the boy replied slowly. 

“No, not that.” Buchanan waved his hand through the air, tossing his comment to the side with the flick of a wrist. “Why continue to try so hard? You were a child, you _are_ slated for the pit, why continue to pray? Why come at all? You knew nothing you did would make it better.” 

“Oh…” the boy, Steve, frowned as though it was something he’d never considered before. “Was I not supposed to?” Buchanan blinked at the question. Steve’s eyes widened and he licked his lips unconsciously. “Did I offend God? By going to Church? I didn’t mean to, but I thought it was still right to thank him.” 

“Thank him?” Buchanan clarified. 

“For sending me to you,” Steve said. 

“Steve, I’m a  _demon_ , not an angel. God had nothing to do with this.” 

“God created demons, didn’t he?” Steve asked him. It looked like he’d wanted to know the answer to that for a while. 

“Yes, he did.” 

“Well, if God created demons, then I ought to thank him for giving me the opportunity to save my ma. I thanked Mrs. Taffer for having Archie, even though she beat me bloody after Archie and I got caught adopting cats in the alley. Sometimes you gotta thank people even if you get punished by ‘em ‘cause you caused trouble.” Buchanan gaped at him. His mind reeled. He pressed his fingers to his eyes as a headache burned through his synapses. 

“You’re thankful to be going to Hell?” he needed to clarify that, because he honestly wasn’t sure what he was going to do with Steve once they got there. He knew that some of his brothers and sisters would love to tear him limb from limb, but the boy was foolish enough to probably thank them for it when they were done. 

“Well, if I’m being honest, not  _really,_  sir,” Steve said sheepishly. “But a promise is a promise, and you held up your side of the deal. So I’ll hold up mine.” Buchanan stared at him again, and found that he wasn’t at all satisfied with this deal. In fact, it rubbed him completely the wrong way. 

He pulled  _sinners_  into Hell. He took the evil of the world and he stored them in the pit where they could never besmirch the light of Heaven. He condemned them for their actions and made them suffer for their evil. He didn’t take innocents that radiated purity and faith and drag them to the depths of despair and desolation. They belonged in Heaven. If anyone was ever slated for Heaven, it was Steven Grant Rogers. 

“I’m not taking you today,” Buchanan told him. He  _couldn’t_ take him. Hell didn’t deserve the likes of this boy. That much honest goodness was going to catch like a disease. They’d never get rid of it. Steve frowned at him, and Buchanan thought back to his clock. There were a few years until the next soul he’d need to claim. It gave him time to see this boy in the comfort of his own home. He wanted to see how he lived, how he combatted the stain of his sin each day. Steve was earning God’s forgiveness, and if he could earn just a little bit more - he would be free from the tortures of Hell. Buchanan wanted to see that happen, he really did. 

“You’re not?” Steve asked him, he was confused and uncertain, but Buchanan just nodded his head. 

“Maybe tomorrow, I don’t feel like it today.” Then, with a tilt of his head, he let himself melt back into the darkness. He had a body to build. 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

To the rest of the world, there had always been a family living in number 2-E Market Place. There had always  _been_  a Market Place. No one thought twice of the street and its inhabitants, and everyone remembered being friends with them all. The only person who was entirely dumbfounded by the new street, new buildings, and new family that lived there, was Steven Grant Rogers. He stopped short when he saw the “Trading Goods” sign, and he squinted when he saw the men and women entering and leaving it with ease. 

“I think it’s quaint, don’t you?”  Buchanan asked him, appearing at his shoulder and peering at his construction with pride. Steve jumped badly and spun about to look at him. 

“Oh, hello, I didn’t think I’d see you here,” Steve greeted, blinking at him in surprise. “Have you come for me?” 

“Not today,” Buchanan told him. “How do I look?” He spun about on his heel, showing off his button down shirt and suspenders. The clothes of this time period were a bit less exciting than he particularly cared for, but needs must. Steve was frowning at him as he finished his rotation, and Buchanan half wondered the disguise was off. 

“Where are your…” Steve made a vague motion with his hand towards Buchanan’s back, and he sighed. 

“ _Apparently_ you mortals don’t have wings. I suppose I’ll just  _have_ to make due.” Steve blinked at that and cocked his head to the side. 

“Why’re you dressed like us mortals, then?” 

“Boredom. It’s unbelievably  _boring_ being a demon, you’ve no idea.” 

“Oh…well…shouldn’t I? I mean, aren’t I meant to go with you now?” 

“Not today,” Buchanan told him again. “Neat trick with the store, no?” 

“Why’s no one else noticed yet?” Everyone was acting like it had been there all along, and Steve clearly wasn’t impressed by their lack of attention. 

“It’s an easy trick. Never you mind about that. I’m James, by the way, James Buchanan Barnes, I’ll be your new neighbor.” Buchanan held out his hand for shaking, and Steve took it easily enough. He’d already pledged his soul to Hell with a kiss, clearly he wasn’t put off by a handshake. “Now, I’m terribly hungry, where can we go ‘round here for some food?” Steve stared at him blankly for a moment before shrugging. 

“Don’ know about any restaurants, never had the money for that. But if you like, we have some pot stew left over from earlier this week. Could get ya a bowl if that’ll be good enough?” 

“Aren’t you swell?” Buchanan tossed an arm over the teen’s shoulders and encouraged him to lead the way. 

Steve didn’t seem too put out by hosting a demon in his kitchen. He spared half a second to glance at the cross by the door, slightly crooked as the nail didn’t sit properly, and Buchanan adjusted it easily enough. Steve’s mouth fell open, before he closed it with a snap. He quickly started up the burner on his stove and set about heating up a bowl for him. 

“It’s a bit of an over exaggeration, all those things about demons and crosses,” Buchanan explained as he sprawled in one of Steve’s chairs. Steve glanced over every so often, interested in what he was saying, but also focused on his food too. “I mean, we have to put up with angels all the time. They’re constantly pestering us about this and that. Not being able to touch them and their ‘holy’ whatevers would be a bit much.”

“So…it’s okay? It doesn’t hurt you?” Buchanan had to think about that for a moment. His fingers tingled when he touched the cross, but it didn’t _hurt_. It wouldn’t. God never inflicted pain on anyone, that was their job. Touching his image had never felt bad, it just felt…lonely. There was a longing to continue to touch that image, hold it close and never let go. Buchanan had known that feeling for thousands of years, from the first moment they’d been cast from Heaven to begin with. He was more than used to it now. 

“No, it doesn’t hurt. Why? Concerned?”

“I don’t know." Steve stirred the pot for a few moments, and then took a deep breath. "You’re not going to hurt my ma, are you? Because…well, I know I ain’t got no right to ask you not to, but-”

“I’m not here for you mother, Stevie,” the boy frowned at that. He didn’t like the name, and Buchanan grinned at the reaction. “I’m just  _bored_. You’re interesting. I’m sure I’ll take you tomorrow or the day after. I’ll let you know.” 

“Okay…well…okay.” Steve settled a bowl full of stew in front of him, and Buchanan quickly swallowed it down. It wasn’t good, but it wasn’t  _bad_ either. It was warm and watery, and probably all Steve could afford. When Buchanan was half finished, he looked up and noticed that Steve was watching him curiously. He hadn’t served himself any. 

“You don’t have enough do you?” Buchanan asked him. 

“I’ll be all right.” Steve smiled. “Don’t you worry ‘bout me.” He quickly turned and started to touch up a bit. He cleaned the counter and organized the salt next to the stove. He was quiet, though, and Buchanan could hear his stomach churn from hunger. He looked down at his bowl and frowned. 

“Here, you should finish this.” Buchanan pushed the half filled bowl into Steve’s chest and he stared at him in confusion. 

“I don’t understand,” he murmured. 

“You’re hungry, I ate your food. I shouldn’t have. So…eat it.” He was sure there would be more of a fight, but the door opened and Sarah Rogers stepped inside. She looked up, and smiled brightly. 

“Well if it isn’t my favorite Barnes boy, how’re you doing dear?” she asked him. Steve’s mouth dropped as he watched his mother walk towards them. She kissed Buchanan’s cheek and then did the same for her son. 

“I’m well, ma’am. There’s some for you on the stove. Steve as just getting ready to have his fill.” Buchanan stepped out of the way to let her pass, and Steve quickly served her the remainder of the stew. It filled her bowl to the brim, and she smiled at him for his efforts. 

“Thank you, dear, but what about your friend?” 

“I already ate, ma’am. ‘Sides, I should be heading home. You know how my mom worries.” 

“That I do, you hurry along then. Don’t you be getting anyone into any trouble.” 

“Never, ma’am!” Buchanan grinned. “Walk me out Stevie?” His summoner looked back and forth between them like they’d lost their minds, but did as he was told. He placed his bowl back on the table and he led Buchanan to the door. They stepped onto the steps leading onto the street below, and Buchanan turned back to look at him. “It’s a trick, they all think I’ve always been here.” 

“Have you been?” Steve asked him. Buchanan shook his head. 

“I told you, I’m bored. Thought I’d see the world for a while. So it’s a trick for now. I’m your friend in their eyes, and you’re mine.” 

“Well, friends don’t call friends by their full name,” Steve told him succinctly. Buchanan scrunched up his nose at that but nodded anyway. 

“Suppose I deserve it. What’s it going to be?” 

“Bucky,” Steve informed him without missing a beat. 

“Not ‘Jimmy?’” he asked curiously. 

“Your real name…it’s ‘Buchanan’ isn’t it? That's what that book said back then. Not right to call you by some fake name you don’t even like.”

“How do you know I don’t like it?” Buchanan asked curiously.

“Do you?” 

“Not particularly.” 

“Well there you go.” Steve’s lips pulled back in a bright smile, and Buchanan wondered what on earth he was thinking of, trying to make friends with a demon. It was all pretend, didn’t he understand that? “So, we’ll see you at church tomorrow then, hmm?” he was teasing him, Buchanan realized. Steve was teasing him, and Buchanan felt compelled to tease back. 

“Unless tomorrow’s the day I decide I’m tired of playing pretend.” Steve shrugged. 

“I can’t change it if it is. See you tomorrow then, Bucky.” He waved tiny fingers in a pleasant goodbye, and Buchanan waved back. 

The next day, for the first time in half a millennium, he attended Sunday mass and took communion. His heart ached for the touch of Heaven, and when he turned to look at Steve: the grey around his soul was just a touch lighter. 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~*

 

 

Buchanan wasn’t sure when he stopped thinking of himself as ‘Buchanan’ and only went by ‘Bucky,’ but the change lasted for years. Steve turned eighteen, nineteen, twenty, and twenty-one. They spent every day together. Steve stopped asking if he was going to be taken to the pit, though Bucky never stopped teasing him about eventually satisfying that debt. Bucky found himself following Steve around, going to school, even interacting with the other children in their (supposed) peer group. 

Girls flocked to Bucky like he was the most precious man alive. Steve rolled his eyes and muttered something about  _if they only knew_  under his breath. Bucky winked at him and hooked his arms around there's and happily danced with them until the morning. “Do you corrupt them?” Steve asked him once. He’d been uncomfortable with the query, and Bucky had to gently explain the answer to him. 

“Demons don’t corrupt humans, they do that to themselves. They chose their own sins and they follow through with them. I can see their sins, their desires, their motivations, and their souls. They already make the choice before I interact with them, and so their soul is already darkened before I touch them. They don’t make deals with me, though, so it isn’t a deadly flaw on their part. It’s…a game, I suppose, but not one that I can change. They make the choices themselves. I merely provide them with their option.” 

“Temptation,” Steve murmured quietly. 

“Temptation,” Bucky agreed. 

Steve was never tempted. He lived a chaste life, and as each year went by, Bucky doubted he’d ever break that trend. His soul was still slightly clouded, but with each good deed and prayer he preformed, he had slowly marched back into the good graces of Heaven. Even if Bucky left him now, he would not be claimed for Hell. The angels would fight for their paragon, and Bucky would gladly give him over. That didn’t mean he was ready to give him over just yet, despite the fact that Steve seemed desperate to get himself killed. 

Steve picked fights with every sinner he met. He stood as a champion for truth and justice, defending God and women and anyone who was weak. He was oblivious to his poor health and his tiny body. Bucky could hardly believe it when he saw the boy jump into his first fight. With each fist he threw, his soul brightened just that extra bit more. He was doing God’s work, and Bucky was horrified at how it was accomplished. 

“You’re going to get yourself killed and then what am I going to do with you? Hm?” Bucky asked him once, stuffing his nose with cotton. 

“Drag me off to Hell I suppose,” Steve replied, tipping his head back. Bucky swatted the back of his head. 

“Lean forward, you’ll choke like that.” Steve did as he was told and Bucky sulked about his injuries for days. Every Sunday Steve reported his fights to the father in confession, and every week he did his penance as he was meant to. The father had long ago given up asking him to not fight. The last time he had, Steve stood perfectly still and let someone bash him to the ground because he refused to throw a punch. Bucky had to intervene on his behalf, hauling fists and snapping shouts until they left him alone. 

They were always together, side by side, laughing and talking to one another like the age old friends everyone thought they were. Steve didn’t have any real friends, the boys he used to spend time with had all grown up and thought little of him. The girls never wanted to do anything with him. He was lonely, and would continue to be alone, if not for Bucky Barnes. 

Bucky joined him at church and played at being a Catholic each week. Then, when he was required, he would slip away from Steve and satisfy the debts that he maintained. After a while, he stopped switching back into his demon form. His human body felt more and more familiar around his aether, and he didn’t miss the feeling of wings on his back. 

“What would happen if you died, though?” Steve asked him curiously one night while they were eating a rare treat together. 

“I can’t die,” Bucky replied. “My body would die, sure, but  _I_ can’t. Might be hard to get out of Hell, though. There’s a line for that sort of thing.” 

“There’s a line?” 

“There really is! Happens all the time, and it messes up all kinds of paperwork and forms. Causes a right mess it does. You get pulled into one of the pits and you just get stuck there for a few hundred years. It’s awful.” 

“What happens to your contracts?” Steve asked him, frowning as he finished off his snack. 

“They get passed on to someone else. Everyone hates the whole ordeal, it’s really awful actually.”

“Do you get in trouble?” 

“Sure,” Bucky replied. He dropped his voice low as he thought about it. Demons didn’t spend too much time hurting each other. There wasn’t a point; they were already  _demons_. There was no further they could go. Still, there was one thing that they did do when it came to punishing them. “But it’s not really like that. The point of Hell is freedom. We’re free. That was what we fought for, you know. We wanted to be valued and appreciated. We wanted to be free to love and hate and cherish and corrupt whom we wanted. We got what we wanted, and God doesn’t interfere with us. We can’t go to Heaven, but we’re free to do as we choose. Demons aren’t punished like humans are.”

“So you’ll be okay, then?” Steve pressed. Bucky arched a brow at him.

“Sure I will. Why you wanna know?”

“Just making sure,” Steve told him. They quickly moved on to other topics, and Steve never mentioned it again.

Bucky found that he liked talking to Steve about the “afterlife” as he called it. There was really no “after” about it for Bucky, but Steve seemed locked in his paradigm as far as that was concerned. They spoke for hours about Heaven and Hell. Bucky told him what he could remember, and Steve sketched it out on his drawing pad. Steve was a wondrous artist, and Bucky loved to watch him work. It was spectacular. He watched Heaven come to life under Steve’s careful strokes, and he quietly asked for some of the pieces to hang in his room.

After nearly four years, Steve had faithfully rendered every aspect of Heaven that Bucky could remember. A warm feeling pooled in Bucky’s chest whenever he woke in the morning to see his first home so lovingly portrayed around him. He loved his freedom, but sometimes the longing touch of home was a temptation too much on its own. He had lived in Hell for the majority of the past eight thousand years, and yet whenever he thought of ‘home’ it was always Heaven he dreamed of.

Steve radiated so much goodness and love, Bucky enjoyed sitting beside him and feeling the purity of his soul wash across his skin. It felt like peace. Steve always looked confused whenever he dozed at his side, but Bucky didn’t care. He didn’t care at all.

Someone tried to summon him again when Steve was twenty-two. Bucky thought about answering, but figured one of his siblings could handle it. He stayed with Steve and they played cards until the moon was high in the sky. It happened another four times throughout that year, and each time he turned away. Then, the calls stopped all together. He was surprised how relieved he felt when they stopped. He made a trip to Hell and passed his contracts to his siblings, keeping Steve’s secure and unfulfilled. They didn’t question him when he said he wanted to rest for a while. They always thought he was lazy.

He returned to Steve’s side, lighter and less distracted than ever before. He placed Steve’s clock on the mantle in his apartment, and it served as a reminder of things left unfinished. Every night he looked at it and thought ‘maybe tomorrow,’ but every morning he looked at it and thought ‘not today.’

The war in Europe started to seem like it was going to be a problem soon enough, and Bucky watched as Sarah Rogers became more and more pensive. She worked longer hours at the ward and it came to no surprise to him when she came down with pneumonia. Steve wouldn’t leave her side, and Bucky found himself working at a shipyard in order to make money for her medicine. It wasn’t enough. She was dying, and they both knew it. Bucky felt his human heart ache at her impending loss. Sarah had been good to him from the start, always looking out for him even when there was no reason to. She cared about him, and it wasn’t even the illusion that made her feel that way.

“Can you save her?” Steve asked him quietly. She was unconscious, and Steve ran his fingers through her hair. Bucky looked at her soul, stretched thin after so many years passed its expiration date. She should have died when Steve was seven, but instead she was dying now.

“No,” he told him.

“Do you _promise_?” Steve asked.

“You already sold your soul, Steve. You can’t sell it again, it is not yours to give.” Steve flinched at his words, but didn’t say anything in response. He ducked his head and held her hand.

Sarah woke up only two more times prior to passing. Steve was with her each time. She only spoke to Bucky once, reaching out with trembling fingers to clutch his hand. As he looked at her, he saw the hand of death wrapping tight around her throat. He watched as her life energy started to fade away. “Look out for my boy, please Bucky?” she asked him as he called for a priest to give her last rights.

“Always, Mrs. Rogers,” he promised quietly. She thanked him and passed away just as Steve began to sob one final time, praying aloud for his mother’s death. This time, there was no miracle. Sarah passed at long last, and Bucky could only wrap an arm around his shoulders as he sobbed for the woman he sold his soul to save.

The night after the funeral, Steve cried himself to sleep in his room. Bucky watched over him as he slept. He closed his eyes and clasped his hands together, and he quietly prayed for Steve’s soul.

“What are you doing?” He didn’t move when he heard the haunting voice slip down his spine. He knew better than turning to face the speaker. Angels were notorious for their theatrics, and he was too tired to deal with them now.

“He will die soon, won’t he?” Bucky asked. Steve slept on, oblivious to their discussion.

“All humans die,” the voice continued.

“I wish to take his place in Hell.” The Angel didn’t respond for a long while. Instead, Bucky felt its presence shift around him. Feathers danced across his skin, and he wondered how long it had been since he’d last felt his own. He hadn’t shifted from his human body in so long. It never felt right anymore.

“You are a Fallen, Buchanan. You know nothing of Hell.” The slight slashed across his mind. He grit his teeth. “I mean no offense,” the Angel soothed. “You ferry souls to their torment, you see it for yourself. But, Buchanan, you have never felt their blades upon your flesh. You have never suffered the fire or the ice. You have never been harmed by their touch. Hell is where you live; you are at peace there. It will not be your home any longer.”

“Hell was never my home.” Feathers danced against his back.

“Only a human soul can be exchanged for another.”

“I know.”

“Are you sure, Buchanan? You will feel so much pain.”

“Only the might of God can make me human,” Bucky replied.

“Your aether for a human soul,” the Angel agreed. “Pull back your mark from the boy’s head.” Bucky fell to his knees and leaned over Steve’s head. He pressed his palm to Steve’s hair and leaned down to grace his lips upon his brow. He could feel the stigma drawing in through Steve’s body. He could almost hear the gears of his clock grind to a halt. The Angel’s hand came to rest on his shoulder, and as the mark sank through his bones, Bucky felt an icy grip seize his heart. He gasped, lungs fluttered in an attempt to breathe. He couldn’t. He couldn’t do it – he choked, and then everything went dark.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

Bucky woke up in Steve’s room. He was cold. So cold. He shivered violently, skin stretched tight across his bones. His hair was on edge and he twisted badly as he looked around him. Steve pressed a hand to his brow. He looked terrified. He was saying something, but Bucky couldn’t process the words. He opened and closed his mouth, but nothing came out. No, that wasn’t right, Steve was speaking, but Bucky wasn’t hearing.

He pushed himself up, but his stomach rolled in his gut. He puked sickly over the edge of the bed. He managed to hear Steve’s shout of surprise. Tears were pulling from Bucky’s eyes and he rubbed at them as he shook. Cold. He was cold. So cold. So very very cold. Why was he so cold?

“Bucky!” He looked up. Steve caught his shoulders and was holding him firm. “What’s going on, what’s wrong?” He couldn’t see Steve’s light anymore. It was gone. Instead, Steve looked pale and swallow, a sickly boy in a sickly body that would die very soon. His name wasn’t written above his head, his history was not visible in his eyes. He was as plain as the floor or the wall, nothing special about him. Bucky sobbed harder, and threw his arms around Steve’s body. Steve held him tight, babbling about something, but Bucky wasn’t listening.

Steve’s rosary sat on the stand next to the bed, and Bucky reached for it. He kept one arm tight around Steve’s body, but he reached for the cross. It felt like wood in his hand. No tingle, no spark, no pull of loneliness and despair. It was wood. Neglect. Emptiness. Before he knew God was actively denying him, now he knew God honestly didn’t care what became of him. He sobbed until his body ran out of tears. He couldn’t manage words for hours afterwards, but eventually he managed to convey what Steve had started to suspect.

Bucky was fully human now.

 

 

It changed everything.

 

 

Market Street vanished just as easily as it arrived. The shop and the apartment were gone. No one remembered the Barnes family, and Bucky was treated as just another orphan brat that lived by the gutter. Bucky's clock found its way to Steve's mantle somehow, but the hands had stopped moving and the glass was broken on its face. 

“Is this what it means to be human?” Bucky asked Steve quietly. “This…emptiness?”

“I don’t feel empty,” Steve replied. “But I don’t know what it’s like to be full either.” Bucky didn’t know what to say about that, so he said nothing at all.

The war came to America not too long after that. Steve didn’t ask him why God let all these bad things happen, and it saved Bucky from telling him an answer he wasn’t sure he believed in. Both of them kept their heads down and found a job. Steve watched the war effort kick up and mentioned his interest in signing on, and Bucky shouted at him until he agreed not to talk about it again.

In the fall of 1942, Bucky was struck by the humor of it all when he received his draft papers in the mail. He was a human that shouldn’t exist, living a world that didn’t know who or what he was, but he still received his draft papers in the mail. He sank to the floor and pulled his knees to his chest, feeling weak and cold and defenseless for the first time in his existence. Steve found him after a few hours. He read the paper at Bucky’s side and clenched it in his fist.

“Do you know what the last war I fought in was?” Bucky asked him quietly.

“War against God?” Steve asked. They sat side-by-side, shoulder-to-shoulder.

“Yeah. Not a great track record.” He pressed his hands to his eyes. “Do you think we’ll win this time?”

‘“Course we will, Buck. ‘Course we will.”

Steve tried extra hard to get signed up to fight after that. No matter of fighting or arguing seemed to have any effect on him. He was perfectly content to ignore everything Bucky said, purposefully feigning deafness whenever Bucky tried to talk him out of it. “You don’t get it!” Bucky shouted, throwing his hands up in the air. “You’ll die out there, you’ll die! Why can’t you stay here and be safe? Why must you always put your fool life in danger?”

“You’re human now, Bucky, you think I’m just going to leave you alone?”

“You must! You _must!_ ”

“Why? Why should I?”

“Because I sold my soul for _you_.” Steve froze at the proclamation. Bucky wore four sweaters and two pairs of pants, and could never seem to get warm. He used to be blazing with the fires of Hell running through his blood, but now only the sun could heat his bones. It wasn’t nearly enough. He shivered now as Steve stared at him, and he rubbed his arms in a poor attempt to keep his blood flowing. “I pulled my mark from your body. You’re free of my curse. You will die and go to Heaven, and in turn I will go to Hell.”

“But you’re a demon,” Steve said slowly.

“I _was_ a demon. I’m not a demon now.”

“But, that’s okay isn’t it? You’re…used to Hell?”

“Steve, demons _live_ in Hell, but they don’t _suffer_ through Hell.” Steve pressed his lips together and thought about it for a few minutes. Then, horror crossed his face and he gripped Bucky’s arms.

“You’ll be tortured. You’ll be torn apart.”

“Yes,” Bucky agreed tiredly.

“Give it back. _Give it back!_ ”

“No. I can’t. I wouldn’t even if I could.”

“ _No!_ It was my sin, _my_ sin.”

“Steve, I was a demon, my sins far surpass that of a child clinging to his mother.” Bucky felt exhausted. He felt his body weight heavily towards the floor. “You were a baby, and your soul was so pure it nearly blighted out my mark entirely. You were always meant to go to Heaven Steve, and you will always go there now.”

“No… _no!_ ” Bucky smiled at him.

“You’ll be with your mother.”

“ _No!_ ” Steve shook him violently and Bucky’s freezing body swayed back and forth at his screams. “You can’t do this. _You can’t!_ Give it back. Give it back!”

“Never heard someone so unhappy to be saved from Hell,” Bucky murmured. He reached out and pulled Steve to his chest. “Please. This is _my_ choice. Don’t try to fight me on it, boy. I’ve been looking out for you since you were seven years old, let me do this now.” Steve held him back.

“I’m signing up. I’m going to war. You can’t stop me. I’ll protect you. You can’t die. You _can’t_. We’ll fight for each other and keep each other safe, then we’ll save your soul too.”

“Oh Steve, there’s no saving me. But thank you for trying.” He pressed his lips to Steve’s brow, and couldn’t feel a thing. There was no soul beneath his touch, no light consuming his mind, just a kiss to flesh. Nothing else. It hurt worse than Bucky could have possibly imagined.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

The army made him a Sergeant. They said he could fight well and that he was a natural leader. Bucky remembered fighting in the war against the Angels. Back then he’d been told he was little more than a coward, and that he loved his holy brothers too much to actually cause them harm. He felt no such compassion towards his human enemies.

The week before he left, Steve brought him to the church one last time. They spoke to the priest quietly, and explained that while Bucky had been taking communion and confession, he’d never been properly baptized. Bucky didn’t know why Steve was so insistent about this, but he was adamant. Bucky quietly requested the procedure, and in the cool fall morning, an aged Priest poured water on his head and proclaimed his sins washed away.

Bucky didn't want to say anything to Steve, but it wasn't that simple. It never would be. He'd made his choice, and holy water could not save him. 

He saluted Steve goodbye the night before he left, watching as Steve tried to enlist one more time. He’d given up on trying to talk him out of it. Steve had only been impassioned by his last attempt; he knew nothing else could douse his fire. Bucky didn’t see his (friend, summoner, charge) boy again before he left. It was for the best.

He toyed with the idea of running away and not fighting, but he hadn’t done that in a far more important war, and he wouldn’t do it now. He boarded his ship and he set sail with a group of children so young they were mostly virgins. They boasted of their talents with girls they never had, and Bucky curled in on himself and tried to ignore the bitter chill.

The war was painful, it was horrible, and it was cold. There were no extra layers in Europe. When their boots landed on the ground he was stabbed with so many tiny needles of chill he almost wished for the fires of Hell. He had to make it back to Steve, though. So he pushed himself forwards. He organized his men under whichever Captain of the day that came to fight with them. Their leaders all died or fled in quick succession, but he stayed still.

Steady as a rock he stayed with his men. They said they loved him for it, and Bucky didn’t know what to say about that. He’d never been loved before, and he didn’t know how to react to it now. He led them on and on. The war just grew colder and more fearsome.

They were captured in Italy, and Bucky found the limitations of his body. He caught pneumonia in a cell, infection dug into his wounds, hunger clung to his bones. The men all said he was dying, and he wondered about Hell more and more. Some of them prayed for him. He prayed for Steve. He prayed for Steve to live a long and happy life, free of sin and temptation. He prayed for Steve to find love and be loved in return. He prayed for Steve, and only Steve, because Steve had changed everything and it was the only thing Bucky knew.

Arnim Zola dragged him to a table where he was stabbed with needles and lanced with knives. He screamed and tried to fight back, but somewhere after the fourth day (he had started judging time by days at some point, he hadn’t noticed that) he wondered if this was Hell. He didn’t bother to fight after that. He would be tortured for all of eternity, and he’d already decided it was worth it. Steve was going to Heaven, and it was worth it.

Which is why it took so long for him to recognize Steve when he came for him. Steve’s name wasn’t in the air above his head, his soul wasn’t glowing like a lantern, and his body was so different than the last time they saw each other. Steve had no place in Hell, and Bucky nearly sobbed when he saw him. “Come on, I’m getting you out of here,” Steve told him. He picked Bucky up and carried him out, and Bucky just barely managed to keep himself from asking what Steve was doing in Hell.

There was no escape from Hell, but they escaped Zola’s lab. Bucky’s men were all alive, and they managed to walk back to safety. Steve was there, and so was he, and Bucky could almost believe that God was finally cared about him after all. Steve was Captain America, full of purity and light. He was perfect in every way, and now the world knew it. He was still filled with humble goodness, though. Nothing had changed. It didn’t go to his head. He was just as perfect as he had always been. Bucky smiled. “That little kid from Brooklyn too dumb to run away from a fight, I’m following him,” he swore to his boy. Steve looked away, grin tugging at his lips.

Bucky fought for Steve. He protected Steve. He championed Steve. He gave in to all those little sins that were full of indulgence, simply to chant and cry about how wonderful Steve was. The world caught on and they all sang Steve praises as well. They loved him, and Bucky thought that he loved him too. It was so easy to love Steve Rogers. He was going to hell for the boy, and he’d do it again and again for all eternity if he had to.

Bucky loved their men, as well. He loved Peggy Carter, Gabe Jones, Jim Morita, Timothy Dugan, Jacques Dernier, and James Falsworth. He loved them all, and he prayed for them all. He attended mass when he could, received communion, and gave confession. He held a rosary in his pocket and he dreamed of the Heaven that was in Steve’s drawings. Steve drew him more, whenever he asked for them. He looked at them each night before he went to sleep, but soon it lost its appeal compared to the people of Earth. Bucky asked for Steve to draw their team for him, and he carried that around instead.  

“You’re my best friend, Buck,” Steve told him.

“You used to be my only friend,” Bucky replied. “But…now I have others, don’t I?” Steve’s smile was so bright that Bucky felt like it could warm the chill in his bones.

“You sure do, Bucky. You sure do.”

They laughed together, played together, fought together. Steve told anyone who would listen that before he had anything, he had Bucky. Bucky knew there were thousands of years that came before Steve, but time seemed to fade those into dust. It was harder to remember his life before humanity. He wondered if one day he’d forget entirely. Steve promised he’d never let him forget.

“You sold your soul for _me,_ Bucky. I’ll never let you forget. I’m going to get you out of your deal one day, I promise.” It was one of those promises that were nice to think about, but would never come to pass.

Four days later, they were talking about Coney Island, about Steve throwing up, about payback, about keeping Nazis on the ropes. And then,  for the second time in his life, Bucky fell. It hurt. It _hurt_. The first time he fell, his had wings broke through the air and kept him safe. Now, he just fell and knew that nothing would be at the bottom except for pain and torment.

He watched Steve’s precious face disappear into the distance and he closed his eyes. He prayed for Steve’s happiness, and let the sharp sting of death stab through him.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

It was cold.

It was so cold.

It was colder than anything he'd ever felt before..

 _Oh, I’m on that layer of Hell then,_ Bucky reasoned. He closed his eyes and let the chill pour through him. He slept knowing his tormentors had all eternity to tear him apart. It didn’t matter.

They stabbed him, cut him, tore his arm from his body. He never fought back.

He was so cold.

They told him things that made no sense, and he agreed with them because there was nothing else for it. Sometimes while they talked amongst themselves, he prayed for his boy. He hoped Steve found a girl and a life. He hoped Steve found peace.

They told him, eventually, that Captain America was dead. While that hurt, Bucky could accept that. He was with his mother, he’d be happy.

They told him he crashed a plane into the snow, and Bucky was horrified. Suicide meant Hell. He prayed and prayed for hours, until his mind is in circles and he didn’t know up from down. He prayed that Steve didn’t kill himself. He had fought so hard to keep Steve from Hell, but Steve _was_ stupid enough to try to fight all the armies of Hell just on the off chance it could secure their freedom. 

The pain never stopped, but neither did his prayers.

Each hurt came in waves, and Zola was there in intervals. Bucky didn’t know if that was an illusion or if someone had finally killed the bastard. He didn’t care. They told him to kill other humans, and he refused. He wouldn’t become like Zola. He wouldn’t kill, torture, or maim anyone. He had saved his boy because Steve was an innocent; he was never the kind of demon that relished in death and despair.

They tortured him until he could hardly think, until his mouth dried from thirst and hunger and he knew not what to say. 

He knew they were going to be inventive, and he was right. They were inventive.

They sent electricity through his body, and he felt his memories of Heaven slip away. His memories of living in Hell, peacefully as a demon, slipped away not long after that. Then the memory of prayer fell through the cracks.

Then…then there was nothing left. 

Pain filled his mind, and he had no idea why. He didn't think about it. He didn't consider it. He accepted it. He embraced it. It was his existence. There was nothing more save for this. Any concept of Hell he might have had, slipped away, leaving only a choked off reality that clouded everything. He knew he deserved this, and he wasn’t going to question it. It wasn't his place to question. 

He kept one memory alone, and it was a memory of disobedience. He had disobeyed once, he recalled, though the exact moment in his history was blurred beyond recognition. He remembered disobeying, and he remembered falling. 

He was so tired of falling. 

He didn't want to disobey anymore. He just wanted to go home.

Someone asked him what 'home' was to him.

He didn't know. 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

There was a man on the bridge, and he spoke a name. “Bucky?”

“Who the hell is Bucky?” he asked, not understanding the name or why it sent sparks of lightening through his mind.  He didn’t get a response before everything fell apart. He asked someone about it later, but the pain started up again, and he closed his eyes to let it pass. He would not disobey.

Pain was a part of his life. It always was. But, there was an ache in his chest that made him feel like he was missing something. When he fought the man on the helicarrier, he heard a name cut through his mind. “Your name is James Buchanan Barnes, you’re my friend.”

“You’re my mission,” he replied. He fought the man brutally. There was no finesse, no skill. He was tired. He was hot. He missed the cold, the familiar cold that sank into him like a punishment he deserved. The heat of the helicarrier was too much, and he was so tired of it. He was so tired of everything.

“Then finish it…because I’m with you until the end of the line.” The words felt like a punch to the gut. He stared at the man beneath him. No. Not a man. A boy. A young boy who loved his mother. _His_ boy. His Steve. His summoner. His friend.

Steve fell, and that was _wrong_. Steve was an Angel that hadn’t grown wings yet, and he wasn’t allowed to fall. James Buchanan Barnes, who couldn’t remember ever being called that name before, could only remember that falling was bad, and horrible, and wrong, dove after his boy. He saved him from the water, and hysterically he realized he'd saved his boy from Hell. He saved his life, his soul, his eternity. James Buchanan Barnes stood on the sand, a nd for the first time in decades, he remembered Earth. “Not Hell,” he whispered, truth sliding into place.

He stumbled away. He walked until he couldn’t walk anymore. He stared at his surroundings and he remembered prayer. He found a church and he hid in its alcove. He pulled his knees to his chest and he trembled. “I don’t understand. I don’t understand.”

“Be at peace, dear Buchanan,” a voice said in the dark. He looked up to see where it came from, but there was no one around. There was only a stained glass window with an angelic depiction staring down at him. Warmth filled his body as he stared at its image. “Feel no fear, your sins are washed away. You are reborn.” The words sliced through his soul, severing rotting flesh from good stock. He was scoured and left clean and pure. He closed his eyes, and body fell fully to the ground. His mind rested and he was at peace in warmth of the light. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so safe, but he slept without incident, nightmare, or fear until daylight warmed the stone beneath his cheek.

When he woke, Steve was with him. They sat side by side, and Bucky looked at his boy. “Hey Buck. You all right?” Steve asked him quietly. His face was battered, bruised, and sore. He still leaned closer to Bucky (the name felt right!) and touched his knee.

“I thought I was in Hell,” he replied. Steve nodded slowly. He ran a hand over the metal arm that replaced the one that had been torn from his body. Bucky shivered violently.

“I know, Buck. I know,” Steve reached out and pulled him close. His boy had grown wider, or he’d grown slimmer. He didn’t know. He was tired. He was so tired. His mind ached, but his body was warm and it didn’t hurt. It didn’t feel wrong. He didn't understand. “You’re safe now. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

“Okay,” he murmured quietly.

“Rest, Bucky.” Steve stroked his back. “Nothing’s going to harm you. You’re safe.”

“You…?”

“Yeah, Buck. Me too.” He let his head tuck under Steve’s chin and closed his eyes once more. He wasn’t okay, but there was a warmth pooling in his chest, and right now: he didn’t feel alone. 

**Author's Note:**

> Questions? Comments? Concerns? Have a prompt you want filled? Find me on tumblr: 
> 
> http://falcon-fox-and-coyote.tumblr.com/


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